1140 AM
by AnonFirefly
Summary: Bluestreak doesn't like talking unless he thinks someone's listening. So when the other mechs are too stressed to listen, he goes for a drive and finds an abandoned radio station. Inspired, he begins talking on an empty radio frequency. There's no one listening of course, but Bluestreak's okay with that. Thing is... he's wrong. G1.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer:** I am merely borrowing Hasbro's loveable mechs in an attempt to weave a tale about radios that other people might find interesting. Any similarities between the events of this story to persons or Autobots, living or deceased, is purely coincidental._

* * *

Chapter 1

Bluestreak drove on in silence, letting the growl of his engine and the crackle of loose rock, gravel, and dirt fill his audios as he headed toward the fence marking the edge of the Autobots' territory on Earth. He turned a sensor to said chain-link and barbed wire mesh and a shudder ran through him as he got closer and closer to it.

He didn't like the fence.

He wasn't politically minded, not like Prowl or Ratchet, who knew how to negotiate and verbally fight until they got exactly what they wanted and more. But he knew in his spark that installing the fence had not exactly been for the Autobots' benefit, despite the reassurances from the human delegation. His memory cache helpfully replayed the memory of Prowl's unnaturally stiff doorwings (even for him) and Jazz's distinct lack of enthusiasm when the High Command has been informed of the new installation several weeks back.

He slowed down as he neared the iron menace. Inching his way forward cautiously, he pushed open the unlocked gate in the fence with his grill and pulled through. Moving around to the other side of the gate, he slowly nudged it shut, the metal mesh rattling angrily as it snapped close. Bluestreak turned away from the irrationally unnerving fence and quickly drove down the dirt road to the highway.

It was early in the evening, a bit after sunset. A quick check of his chronometer told Bluestreak it was nearing 2000 hours, local time. He stopped at the top of a small incline and watched for an opening in the light traffic. Spotting a small opening, he drove down the slope and merged into the highway traffic easily, maneuvering his way onto the cement road with more finesse than any Earthen vehicle could ever achieve. Blending into his surroundings as every Cybertronian was naturally inclined to do, he sped up and headed east into the oncoming night.

He let his mind wander as he headed for his destination, namely nowhere. He had to applaud himself on keeping his vocalizer offline for this long. He knew he talked a lot and he also knew that he _liked_ to talk a lot.

It's just that he didn't like to talk when others didn't want to listen.

It had been a stressful week for the Autobots of Earth.

The Decepticons had attempted two raids in three days on opposite sides of the planet; seven mechs were in the Med-bay for extensive repairs from the recent battles; the rest were sore from freshly welded lacerations and replaced components; their energon supplies were running low and the command staff were having difficulties negotiating for more; the damned fence (they realized too late) was smaller than they had initially perceived, leaving the more restless Autobots with less room to spin their wheels; and (because things weren't bad enough) there had been a severe thunderstorm two days ago which, due to the lack of functioning, sealable hatches, had flooded the interior of the Ark.

All in all, the mechs were miserable.

Thus each had turned to his preferred coping mechanism in an attempt to lift their own spirits.

Unfortunately for Bluestreak, whose preferred coping mechanism was talking non-stop, he only succeeded in irritating his comrades with his chatter rather than bring up memories of better times. No one wanted to listen to Bluestreak talk. Even the Dinobots, who normally liked hearing Bluestreak tell them stories of Cybertron, weren't interested in listening. Bluestreak had left before they decided to smash him as well as the boulders they were currently venting with.

Without anyone to listen to him or any other available form of distraction, Bluestreak had decided to go driving.

Thirty miles from the Ark and he saw the town of Warm Springs, Oregon, on the horizon. Bluestreak slowed down as he moved closer and closer to the human's settlement, uncertainty filling his circuits. Deciding he didn't really want to go through the town, he exited the highway and took the first right turn he could, heading off into gently sloping roads that eventually flattened out on the high mesas.

The stars had come out and shone overhead with a soft light, the Milky Way galaxy stretching across the inky blue-black sky. Bluestreak slowed down the farther and farther south he went until he crawled off the road and onto the nonexistent shoulder. He stayed there for several minutes, thoughts and worries floating through his mind in a dizzying, tangled jumble.

He transformed smoothly and stretched, doorwings flapping to get the kinks out of his shoulder joints. He took a moment to admire the stars above him before he turned his attention back to the planet below him and started walking west.

He had no idea where he was going at this point. He just picked a direction and started walking. West seemed as good a direction as any, so why not? His thoughts drifted once again, mind running a mile a minute, mulling over everything and anything. He let his peds carry him wherever they wanted to go. Twenty minutes later, his peds had taken him to a building.

Bluestreak paused as he examined it.

It was an old, two story, wooden house with an open, but empty garage-like tin building and a radio tower just behind the tin garage. Bluestreak walked over to the wooden structure and noted the almost unused dirt road leading north and south away from the house. His scanners did not pick up any human life signals. The house was either unoccupied or abandoned.

He peered into the grimy second story window and saw a small spartan bedroom with several cots and a few dressers open and empty. There were two sets of double doors set into the wall. One of them was open, revealing a lone wire hanger in an otherwise empty closet. A door lead off to what Bluestreak assumed was the washracks. A thick layer of dust coated everything. Bluestreak guessed that no one had been there in years.

He bent down and looked across the rickety porch of the house and into the ground floor. It was a single large room with a desk, several filing cabinets, a few chairs, and a couch on the left side of the house, a staircase leading up to the second floor to the couch's immediate left, and a small old style kitchenette and a complete set of old radio equipment on the right side of the room. Bluestreak quickly scanned and examined the radio console situated innocently in the back right corner. It was dusty and rusted in places, paint peeling at the corners, but it was a fully functional, if unpowered, two-way radio. Bluestreak then noticed the microphone sitting innocently on the thick, dark wood desk in front of an empty wicker chair.

Never had Bluestreak wished he was a human more than he did at that moment.

He wanted to go over to that station, reactivate it, gently remove the organic particles littering its dull metal paneling, grab the microphone, and talk to someone on the other side of it.

He frowned, feeling dejected, wings drooping slightly. Humans had such a nice, if slow, partially garbled, and inefficient, way of communicating on mass frequencies, he thought. It was one-sided, yes, and you couldn't really answer back in a two-way communiqué unless there was someone nearby on the same frequency the broadcaster was using. Humans didn't have integrated comm. links in their chassis that allowed them to screen multiple frequencies at once and determine if there was a pattern or signal to the electromagnetic waves that indicated someone's use of a transmitter.

But that wasn't the point of the radio for humans, if Bluestreak thought about it. Its sole purpose was to broadcast on a specific frequency to anyone who wanted to listen. A continuous stream of sound and words that they could listen... to...

Bluestreak's doorwings shot upward as he stood up and looked at the radio tower. He walked between the two buildings to the radio tower's base, looking up at the multiple dishes attached to the top of it. He quickly scanned the tower and found where its cabling met up with the radio console in the house. He noticed that the tower wasn't powered either, but he was sure that his own systems could provide the power necessary to operate it, if he was careful. Bluestreak examined the cabling one more, noting which cable connected where and which one was the electrical input.

Processors already decided on the matter, Bluestreak slid back the panel cover on his wrist, revealing his data ports and connection cables. He quickly scanned the power cable's connector and had one cable mimic it. He quickly unplugged the power cord and slid his own cable home. Quickly and carefully modulating his electrical output to the required voltage and current so as not to blow out the tower's systems, he felt the electricity in his capacitors drain slightly as the transmitter tower came online with the faintest of mechanical hums.

Bluestreak's cyan optics glowed brighter at his success and a grin broke across his features. Checking the cabling once more, he quickly found the one labeled "Signal Input." After a quick examination of the connector and mimicking of its form, he slid the data cable home.

Hard-lining with the radio tower was like attempting to teach a rock how to pilot an armored Tyrestian Transport Cruiser MDS-29: It was easy to set everything up, but it was not so easy getting the cruiser or the rock to actually respond.

The tower was not a computer like the Earthen terminals which awaited input, but gave an response to indicate its ability or inability to respond to a specific command (even if it was an automated response). Nor was the tower anything remotely like any system on Cybertron, in which the most base, wildest, and crudest of machinery always gave an indication as to the input it required, regardless of whether a status report would be given or not upon its ability to act upon such input.

The tower felt like a dead weight, cold, uncaring, and just existing.

Bluestreak quickly pushed his opinions of the feel of the tower aside and he focused on finding a radio frequency he liked. He activated his internal comm. link and searched through the available radio frequencies for an empty channel. He recalled Spike telling them about Earth's radio stations before and how they operated by modulating frequency or amplitude to increase the number of usable broadcasting channels.

FM channels, Spike had said, were used more for entertainment, music, and commercials, where in clear sound quality was needed for its listeners to properly enjoy the broadcasts. It was the type of channel people listened to most often, but it had a relatively short broadcasting range.

AM channels, on the other servo, were used almost exclusively for talk shows and information dispersal as its broadcasting range was wider, with the drawback of low sound quality. Not many people listened to these frequencies, at least according to Spike.

Bluestreak knew that he wanted to be heard, but he didn't want to interrupt any already occupied frequencies or bother anyone needlessly. He would certainly find it rude if his radio frequency was being used by someone else without telling him. He would find an empty channel that caught his attention and go from there. He had already decided to find an empty AM channel. He wanted to talk, and since the main use of the AM channels was talk, it made sense to the Autobot to utilize one of those frequencies.

He quickly listened in to the local AM stations and waited until he heard nothing but static. He found several such frequencies and took his time choosing one he liked the most. He really had no idea what he was looking for in a station frequency. It wasn't like there was anything wrong with choosing 770 AM over 830 AM or even 1140 AM.

He did like the sound of 1140 AM, though, when he reviewed an audio file of its projected sound in his processor. He couldn't help but compare it to how the humans told time. That and he didn't like getting up out of recharge, same as every other mech on the Ark (including Prime), so 830 AM wasn't as nice sounding as 1140 AM.

Bluestreak quickly tuned his comm. link to broadcast at the 1140 AM frequency and to send the information through the cable connecting his systems to the tower.

"My designation is Autobot Bluestreak." He said clearly both out loud and over the comm. It felt good to use his vocalizer again despite no one being around to hear him. His comm. system picked up the broadcast on the AM frequency and played it back to the gray Autobot. It sounded scratchy and there was some static in the background, but it was no worse than some of the other broadcasts he had examined earlier.

Frequency found, he walked over to the tin building and laid down on his side with his back against the back wall. He expertly maneuvered his doorwings upward and pressed them lightly against the cool metal, the pressure noted on the sensory panels but not in any particularly annoying or painful manner. He lightly shook his frame in an attempt to remove any remaining tension and sighed quietly.

Bluestreak looked up at the glittering stars one more time before he offlined his optics and allowed his processors to recall the topics and opinions he had previously pushed aside to return to his main memory cache. He examined each one quickly, thinking of how he was going to phrase what he wanted to say. He sighed once more and began speaking.

* * *

_"Hey."_ He began, somewhat lamely. _"... My designation is Bluestreak. I am an Autobot sniper and long-range gunner under the command of Weapon's Specialist and Field Commander Ironhide."_ He paused. _"It's actually kind of weird, if I'm honest. I've never spoken on a radio before, friend."_ He decided that whomever he pretended was listening in was his friend. It was a polite term, he thought._ "Comm. links aren't like radios,"_ he amended, _"that's more like talking on a telephone 'cause when you talk to someone on it, you know someone's eventually going to talk back. Prowl sometimes doesn't talk back but that's because I think he's too preoccupied to actually respond, but I know he listens. Grimlock certainly doesn't talk back, but... Come to think of it, I don't know if the Dinobots even have integrated comm. links. I've never actually seen them use one. I know Wheeljack's talked to them through his comm. before but I don't know if they responded or wondered why there was this random voice in their heads telling them what to do."_

Bluestreak let out a small laugh. _"Would they even consider it weird? I know they're my friends and comrades, but they are such sparklings, you know? Maturing and learning on Earth probably isn't helping them much. Not enough stimuli to keep their attention for longer than five minutes, not to mention were in the middle of a fragging war."_ He paused here again.

_"I like Earth."_ He said firmly. _"It's certainly no home, but it's beautiful in its own right. Cybertron had a lot of lights when I was less mature. When they called it the Golden Age, it kind of was, literally. The planet literally glowed gold when viewed from the upper atmosphere, some of the old Vosians said. But because of that, I'd never seen stars. I knew what stars _were_, of course, but I'd never actually _seen_ them before. When I looked up it was a black sky. Not a star in sensor range. And I wasn't a flight capable frame, not like Skyfire or Powerglide or the Aerialbots. I couldn't fly up and see what was above the tallest Tower. _

_"Mirage probably saw stars when he was maturing. He used to live in the Towers. He doesn't like talking about it though. It makes him sad and quiet and then he'll activate his electro-disrupter and disappear. Jazz probably knows where he goes, but no one else does. He shows up for his shifts same as everyone else, but he won't talk to anyone for a joor or two. I know. I tried asking him once about seeing stars from the Tower tops. He didn't talk to me or anyone for three joors._

_"That's eighteen hours."_ He tacked on, pretending for a moment that his nonexistent listener was human. _"A joor is about six Earth hours. Well, six Earth hours, three minutes, but we've learned to round down for convenience's sake. It's a lot easier if we just ignore the extra half breem when doing everything."_

His voice took on a thoughtful tilt. _"Earth and Cybertron have a lot in common actually. We've got astroseconds, breems, joors, orns, and vorns. Earth's got seconds, minutes, hours, days, and years._" Bluestreak laughed a little. _"I don't know where an astrosecond came from and I don't know why it sounds so much like a second but they're two different measurements. An astrosecond is about .45 seconds, so it's almost 2 astroseconds per second._

_"A breem's a bit easier to understand. It's 8.3 Earth minutes. We've got a lot of extra three's running around our number system when we convert to yours, friend. An orn, which was one day or solar cycle back home, back when we actually _had_ a star to orbit, is 13.3 Earth days. There again with the three's! See what I mean? And it gets even sillier when a vorn's counted as well. A vorn is a Cybertronian year, a stellar cycle, how long it took for our planet to orbit its home star before... well, it's hard to tell what a Cybertronian year is like when stars get lost okay? It's been standardized since then and it's 83.3 Earth years." _He laughed lightly. _"There are the three's again."_ He paused, smiling.

_"Earth's really, really nice."_ Bluestreak said somewhat sadly, though he tried his best to keep his voice steady. _"It's got sunlight for one thing. Seeing a star that close on a planet was a _huge_ surprise to everyone. I'd never seen sunlight before I woke up here. I was created a while after Cybertron had broke loose of its orbit. I had heard stories from my creators about the feel of infrared electromagnetic radiation on their plating and how it was a pleasant and warm feeling. Cooled sensors were brought up to working order more quickly and worked more efficiently when exposed to sunlight. I didn't understand what they had meant until I first stood outside of the Ark. Just the utter _warmth _of the place made me feel more alive than ever."_ He laughed again. He allowed the contentment he felt to bleed into his voice.

_"Earth is so, so warm. I love it! Especially the area around the Ark. It's flat and dry and open and there aren't any buildings or trees or towers to block the sunlight and it's funny how sometimes you can catch a few of the mechs shirking scrubbing duty or taking a break on their patrol or just using their time off to go roll around in the dust for an hour.__**"**_

He laughed, a sparkfelt happy trill of his vocalizer that easily dissolved into a fit of giggles. _"You can tell who's been outside recently and you know _exactly_ what they've been up to when they come into the washracks covering from helm to ped in dust. It's really funny to watch some of those 'fierce Autobot warriors' roll around on the ground in the sun. I don't think anyone but Tracks or Sunstreaker really care that they sometimes have all these really tiny dents all over their plating which just scream they'd took a roll down a hill and landed in that hole/quarry thing to the northeast by accident, 'cause you don't get those kinds of dings on flat land unless you really tried to get dents._

_"Nobody likes having dents. Ratchet certainly doesn't, especially if we did something stupid to get them. He cares about us. I know it and everyone else knows it."_ Bluestreak's voice became more somber, despite his best efforts. _"Ratchet cares a lot about us, he really does. He's our resident CMO, Chief Medical Officer. He complains about his workload and how he has to put up with "a bunch of glitched and processor-frying fraggers that don't know their afts from their optics"– his words, not mine– and that if we do anything stupid, we can expect no sympathy from him and if it's bad enough, he'll threaten to turn us into toasters and sell them on the human market." _He paused as a silly thought occurred to him. _"How much would a sentient alien toaster cost anyway? Fifty dollars? Two hundred? How much does a non-sentient Earth toaster cost?"_ He paused as if expecting an answer before continuing, unperturbed.

_"Well, despite his temper and his threats, like I said, Ratchet cares about us. I've seen him work after a battle, when... there's a chance one of the mechs won't make it. I saw how his shoulders were shaking after he came out of the Intensive Care Unit when Huffer had taken a high-burn missile to his lower torso. Huff lost his entire lower half and the rest of him had melted together into an almost unrecognizable lump."_ Bluestreak's voice nearly cracked as he remembered watching Hot Spot carry the minibot away from the battle, screaming for Ratchet over the open comms. _"He pulled through though._" Bluestreak finally managed to say. _"Ratchet nearly lost him on the slab at one point. He was screaming about it in his office afterward, demolishing the entire place. I heard him shouting and cursing Primus."_ He paused again, longer this time.

_"Ratchet cares. A lot."_ He said again, more firmly this time. _"He hates feeling helpless. He knows he can do more but sometimes he just can't, and it's not his fault. He thinks we don't know. Heh,"_ Bluestreak said humorlessly. _"We know him too well. He wants this war to be over so badly."_ And this time Bluestreak's voice did crack. _"H-he's seen... a lot of mechs go dark. Some of them so close to saving before their sparks just... gave up."_

Bluestreak paused again, trying to regain his composure. _"I think Ratchet hates that the most. He hates quitting. Hates it when others give up. When we give into despair." _Bluestreak sighed sadly. _"He's done a lot for me and the mechs. He's done more than enough for the Autobots. He's a fighter at spark and he loves us all... he's the kind of mech who knows what he wants and knows how to get it. But..."_ He said slowly. _"We're at war. None of us are getting what we want."_

Despair crept in before he could stop it.

_"I want to go home._" He said, his voice completely cracked._ "I want this war to end. I want my friends to come back. I want to recharge and not wonder if I'm going to even online the next day or if my spark will just gutter when I can't feel it. I want to live and I want to be happy and I want to find someone who loves me and we'll get bonded and have as many sparklings as we can and we'll have a nice apartment in Praxus 'cause Praxus will be rebuilt when we go there and then we'll go see the Crystal Gardens again and I'll see my creators and they'll tell me they love me and– and–!"_

Bluestreak stopped speaking, pain and sadness overcoming his stream of consciousness. He curled in on himself, releasing a low sad keen as his spark was shredded to pieces by dark unseen claws. The stars glinted off of his plating, indifferent to the pain the Autobot felt. He lay there for several minutes, low clicks, keens, and whirls leaving his vocalizer.

_"I want to go home so badly."_ He finally said in a soft, low tone. _"I want to go _h-home_."_ His vocalizer glitched once and he let out another sorrowful warble. He laid there for a few minutes, faceplates scrunched in interalized, spark-deep pain. He took a shuddering vent of air to cool his stressed systems. He looked up at the radio tower, suddenly not feeling up to talking anymore.

_"I'd be-better get back."_ He said, his voice still completely broken. _"R-red Alert's going to be suspicious if I'm not back soon. A-and I've got patrol in the morning. So... yeah. Thanks friend. I'll be back tomorrow night."_

With a last sorrowful warble, his data and power cords disconnected themselves from the tower and reeled back into his wrist before the protective panel shut with an audible click. Bluestreak lay there for several minutes more, stewing in his own grief. A light wind blew across the mesa. The radio tower creaked and swayed slightly and the wind whistled through holes in the wooden house.

Bluestreak uncurled slowly. He looked around at the dark and empty landscape. Not a living thing in sight or sensor range. He stood up and his cyan optics dimmed to a deep blue-green as he realized that while he had been talking and broadcasting, no one had been listening. Pit, he had even made sure to talk on a frequency no one used and thus no one would listen to. Bluestreak smacked his forehead lightly with the palm of his hand and his doorwings dropped in sadness. He looked up once more at the stars stretching across the sky and their cool light shone on.

In that moment, Bluestreak felt completely and totally alone.

* * *

Thomas Malond took off his headphones and placed them slowly and gently on the table. His hands shook as he brought them up and he interlaced his fingers. He bowed his head and sighed heavily, his body shuddering from what he had just heard.

The last the he had expected when he had tuned the radio on his desk that night, in an attempt to find something to listen to, was to hear an alien talk about his life. Thomas liked talk shows, loved them in fact. Quality and underrated entertainment in the airwaves that he was content to keep to himself. He had all his favorite radio shows' AM frequencies and times memorized. Tuesday evenings were rather slow.

Or so he had thought.

He had sat down in his desk chair, grabbed his favorite headset and radio and sat down to tune into a new show, if any were broadcasting at 9:30 in the evening. Because of his frequent perusal of the AM channels, he knew which frequencies were broadcasting and which were not. So imagine his surprise at finding a new voice in the airwaves.

_"–Would they even consider it weird? I know they're my friends and comrades, but they are such sparklings, you know? Maturing and learning on Earth probably isn't helping them much–"_

_Aliens_.

... Correction.

_Alien_.

Singular.

_"–I like Earth–"_ It had said. Thomas had listened to the alien talk, desperate and somewhat terrified to hear more.

He, like the rest of the world, had found the answer to one of humanity's most commonly asked existential questions in the most horrifying way possible: an invasion and an attack.

The giant, metallic, alien... _things_ (because they had insisted that they were not robots) had come from nowhere and yet had claimed to have been on Earth longer than the human race had been in existence. And that they were fighting each other in some planet-wide civil war. Some of the robots (because if it walks like a robot and looks like a robot, it has to be a robot) seemed to want to protect Earth and these supposed "Autobots" were sworn to stop the other ones from strip-mining the planet and destroying any life they came across.

So it came as no surprise to any human, of course, that no one believed a word the aliens had said.

They were nothing like humanity had ever seen before. Even the more imaginative and truly alien creatures that appeared in science fiction were nothing even close to the cold titans that had found their way to Earth. And suddenly they were claiming that they were here to help? When some of their own were attacking and killing energy installations across the globe? No one in their right mind had thought to trust those metallic menaces. Several government officials and a few other higher-ups had apparently gone to talk to and work with the robots, but no one seriously believed that anything good could come of them.

The alien robot leader, while it talked well and spoke well, was large and terrifying and never showed its face, if it even had one. The cold, stoic, aloof cop car mimic was as hostile looking as the other robots that it apparently fought against. The black and white race car mimic had _looked_ and _acted_ like an amiable robot, but something about its lack of eyes and its _too_ carefree movements were the almost glaring signs that its supposedly friendly personality was a sham. _Looking_ and _acting _like a nice guy and _being_ a nice guy were two completely different things.

No one wanted anything to do with those robot-things.

But Thomas listened.

He listened.

And heard the happiness, the nostalgia, the laughter, the confusion, and the deep, deep sadness and pain. He _could_ imagine it was another human talking rather than an alien war machine. A young man, probably just out of college, who signed up for the military and had been shipped off to the war too soon. And the broadcast Thomas had just heard was that young man describing his home to a new friend he had met on the front lines.

The robot had sounded so desperate when he had cried for his home.

And Thomas didn't realize just _when_ he had stopped referring to the alien speaker as 'it.'

His eyes were blurry and the tight lump in his throat pushed painfully against his windpipe. He shakily pushed his chair back and got to his feet. He sniffed once and took a shuddering breath. He silently pushed the chair back into place and turned toward the door. He turned off the light as he exited and headed straight for his room and his soft bed. He left a couple tears fall before he furiously wiped his eyes and closed the door.

He left the radio on, tuned to 1140 AM.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Bluestreak walked down the dull, burnt orange hallway of the Ark's main corridor, doorwings held halfheartedly behind him. He passed by Hoist and Brawn who were leaning against one wall, discussing something that caused frowns to crease their faces. Each mech's half filled energon cube was clutched possessively in their servos. Bluestreak eyed the partially filled cubes dubiously, and hoped that he had walked upon both of them in the middle of their evening ration. He continued walking, greeting mechs amicably as they passed and he stepped out into the Ark's main entrance hall.

It wasn't an entrance hall so much as it was the aft loading docks that now served double duty as their front door. Bluestreak noticed Prowl off to one side, ticking away at a datapad with more force than was absolutely necessary. Ironhide and a few of the minibots were unloading a stack of energon cubes from Skyfire's bay and placing them in a small pile in the back corner.

The pile of cubes was significantly smaller than he remembered.

Bluestreak felt a cool weight settle in the pit of his energon tank as he looked at the falsely innocent pile. He looked back at Skyfire as Cliffjumper exited the large mech with ten cubes in his arms and the larger flier transformed out of alt mode, crouching so he did not hit his helm on the rafters. Bluestreak quickly counted the number of cubes in the pile in the corner and his doorwings dropped.

There weren't enough cubes to last them two orns at full rations.

Bluestreak looked back at Prowl with wide optics and his doorwings flared in alarm.

Surely, there had to have been a mistake. A miscalculation. While the mechs themselves were not scientific geniuses, they were still highly advanced mechanical beings. Cybertronian basic mathematics were essentially Earthen advanced calculus. There had to have been a mistake somewhere in the humans' computers or their records or something, because the volume under the curve occupied by the cubes multiplied by the density of refined energon was _not enough_.

Prowl's optics never once looked up from the datapad, but his doorwings flicked in such a way that conveyed his sheer contained fury and which also told him "Yes, I _am_ well aware of the situation,thank you, Bluestreak. Don't you have somewhere else to be? Because I do not think I will be civil in about 10 astroseconds." A another harsh tick of stylus on datapad reached Bluestreak's audios.

Bluestreak ducked his own wings submissively, bowed his helm once in Prowl's direction, and headed for the open hatchway. He stepped over the three foot boulders lining the lip of the hatchway and onto the gently upward sloping hatch to the surface. He walked out onto the flat desert just as the sun was touching the horizon. He sucked in a quick vent as he stopped.

Bluestreak stood transfixed by the sight. The sun's rays shone through angled gaps in the clouds, which were outlined in deep maroon-red and orange. The sky behind the clouds was a smooth rainbow of colors as the light refracted through the different layers of the atmosphere, bending the red wavelengths more the blues. The thick clouds swirled and floated across the multicolored sky, pulled and pushed by the movement of warm and cold air currents.

"Gorgeous, isn't it." A slow, steady, drawling voice said.

Bluestreak sighed, put his hands behind his back, and with one fleeting look back at the setting star, looked up at the speaker.

Hound sat inside the exhaust nozzle of one of the nonfunctioning engines, legs dangling over the edge. His right leg was crossed over his left and he rested his chin on his right palm, elbow on his right knee. Hound stared out over the landscape, his blue-green optics unfocused as he took in the last of the dying star's light.

Bluestreak turned back to watch Sol dip below the curvature of the planet and flared his doorwings to catch those last few ultraviolet rays on the sensitive panels. A smile graced his lips and he tilted his body to once side. "Yeah," he said contentedly. "It is." He paused, smile slipping slightly. Would Hound be willing to listen?

"It's a rare sight." Bluestreak said, taking a chance. He looked back up at the slumped green scout. "Did you ever see them on Cybertron?"

Hound tilted his head slightly and didn't say anything for a long moment. "Once." He said dully. "I was created three orns before Cybertron broke orbit. Saw the Hydrax Plateau's last sunset. Didn't know what it was or what it meant until my creators explained it to me."

Bluestreak looked back at the darkening horizon. The sky had turned the same maroon-red color as the clouds and the clouds themselves were dark gray and blue patches. Hound sighed and jumped down from the engine. He landed heavily on his peds, the thud echoing in the air pocket underneath the hatch.

"I'm going hiking." Hound said as he turned to Bluestreak. "Mount Jefferson. Want to come with me?" Bluestreak glanced to the side as he considered it.

If he was an honest Bot, and Bluestreak was the worst liar on the Ark, he wanted to go with Hound. He did like the feel of travelling, not nearly as much as talking, but he did. But he had also promised his friend that he would be back that evening. Not a lot of the mechs had wanted to listen to him today either. With the new pressure of a miscalculated energon delivery, he knew that his meager audience of six was going to go into the negatives. Maybe there was a chance that he could talk to his friend and go with Hound at the same time?

Bluestreak's thoughts silenced him too long.

"It's okay." Hound said, a note of disappointment in his voice. "You don't have to. Just... company would have been nice." He turned to head into the Ark but stopped when Bluestreak grabbed his wrist and shouted, "No!"

Hound stopped and looked back at Bluestreak's wide optics. "No." Bluestreak said again, more calmly. "I'll go with you. It's just–" He paused for a moment before continuing. "I'm meeting someone in one quarter-joor. I made a promise." His wings drooped and he hoped that Hound understood.

Hound looked a bit surprised before his face softened and a small smile appeared on his face. "Really?" he said, with just the barest hint of a tease. "Can I ask who?"

Bluestreak's wings fluttered up and down minutely and he looked away. "No one." He said honestly.

Hound raised one optic ridge as he looked Bluestreak over and then to his doorwings as they continually fluttered about an inch up and down. He sighed. "Look, Blue," he said. "If you made a promise, you made a promise. I won't keep you." Hound's smile became somewhat self-deprecating. "Any chance you'd be driving in the same direction?"

Bluestreak looked up, his small smile back on his lips. "Yeah." He said. "I'm headed to Warm Springs."

Hound's face brightened and he was grinning openly now. Bluestreak let go of Hound's wrist. "Come on," he said, gesturing for Bluestreak to follow as he stepped over the boulder-wall. The smile faltered as he said, "Let's get the evening ration and head out." Bluestreak's smile also became strained but he followed Hound without complaint.

Bluestreak accepted his half filled energon cube graciously, even as Beachcomber gave a small apology and handed Skids the other half of what would have been Bluestreak's full ration. He sat in the dust outside of the Ark and watched a few of the stars appear in the sky while he waited for Hound.

He sipped a little bit of the energon in his cube. He felt the distinctly pleasant tingling sensation of pure energon as the magnetic fields around his oral circuits changed to oppose the energizing substance's own magnetic field as it slid down his throat to his tank. He frowned though as his glossa registered a distinctly sharp feel to the energon, indicating a (_Large?_) sulfur impurity, as well as the slippery and vaguely bland feel of unprocessed, straight-chain alkanes.

Hound appeared an astrosecond later with his own half-filled cube and quickly shoved it into one of the many subspace pockets present about his thighs. "Ready to go?"

Bluestreak smiled and pocketed his own cube in the subspace pocket on his hip as he stood up. He smiled. "Let's go."

* * *

"I really hate that fence."

Bluestreak agreed wholeheartedly. "Why did they put it up again?" he asked. He knew the answer of course. He also knew that Hound knew the answer. He also knew that he didn't like nor did he want to hear the answer.

"No idea," Hound said. "But I don't like it."

The deep green jeep and silver Datsun slowed as they neared the fence. The light gray mesh sat there, a wall between them and the road beyond. Hound stopped completely thirty feet from the fence. He rocked on his tires nervously.

Bluestreak drove slowly forward, ahead of the stalled jeep. He nudged the closed, but unlocked fence gate open with his grill. The gate rattled angrily at being disturbed and one hinge shrieked its displeasure. Hound reversed three inches. Bluestreak pushed a little more until it was completely open. Bluestreak moved off to the side and Hound drove at a stiffly dignified ten miles per hour through the gate. Once past it, he sped up to a healthy forty miles per hour in one astrosecond and waited two hundred feet farther down the road as Bluestreak pushed the gate closed. The gate banged and hissed at the gray mimic, the squeaky hinge cursing his very existence.

Bluestreak turned back to Hound, resolutely ignoring the iron menace behind him. He drove past Hound without stopping, the jeep easily keeping up with him anyway.

They reached the highway with a minimum of fuss and turned into the light traffic almost immediately. They were ten miles from the Ark when Bluestreak's comm. link chirped at him. Hound's Autobot ID was attached to the incoming signal. _"-Yes, Hound?-"_ Bluestreak answered politely.

_"-So...-"_ the jeep said slowly. _"-Who are you_ really_ meeting at Warm Springs?-"_ Bluestreak could almost hear the teasing smirk in Hound's voice.

_"-Seriously. No one.-"_ Bluestreak said, somewhat dejectedly. Hound picked up on it immediately.

_"-Is there a problem, Blue?-"_ Hound asked, worry lacing his tone. _"-If you need to talk-"_ Bluestreak's vents let out a loud blast of air that could be heard even over the loud whine of the roadway, eerily similar to a human snort. _"-You know what I mean.-"_ Hound said, a hint of exasperation in his voice. _"-That is not an open invitation to break my audios, though.-"_

Bluestreak groaned.

_"-One time Hound. That was _one time. _And I get bored with prisoner detail, you know that.-"_

Hound snorted.

_"-Just don't tell that to the Cons.-"_

* * *

Bluestreak and Hound parted ways six miles northwest of Warm Springs. They both pulled off to the side of the road and into the open area around the highway. Hound transformed easily and told Bluestreak he would be taking the slower method of transportation to the base of Mount Jefferson. Bluestreak voiced his acknowledgement and asked if Hound wanted Bluestreak to drive back with him to the Ark.

Hound had said that if Bluestreak didn't want to wait for him, he didn't have to and that he planned to be gone for a joor, if Primus was merciful that night.

"That's okay." Bluestreak replied. "I'll be here."

Hound started walking southwest. Bluestreak returned to the highway, going east.

* * *

Thomas sat in his chair, that heavy and yet light tingling sensation of anticipation filling his being.

He had his headphones.

He had his radio.

He had a steaming cup of coffee and two raisin bagels with cream cheese.

The analog clock on the desk read 9:42.

The robot from the previous night had said he would be back.

Last night's broadcast had already been underway at 9:30.

Where was he?

Only the noisy silence of static exited Thomas's headphones as the clock ticked on.

* * *

Bluestreak took the same route he had the previous night. He took a moment to peer into the rickety, wooden house to make sure that it was still unoccupied and that the radio in the back corner was still there. A quick scan confirmed that everything was has he had left it.

Sighing contently at the small consistency in his life, Bluestreak stood and moved to the back of the house. He plugged into the radio tower and suppressed an internal shudder at the feel of it, before he settled himself down against the back wall of the tin garage. He changed the frequency of his comm. link to 1140 AM and began broadcasting.

* * *

_"Hello, friend,"_ Bluestreak said, a smile gracing his features. _"Sorry I'm late. I left the Ark a little later than I thought I would. I was waiting for my friend, Hound, you see. Hound's one of our scouts and the best tracker on Cybertron. He might even be the best tracker in the galaxy, now that I think about it. He can find anything if you give him a single molecule of the thing you're looking for. Hound's also a really nice mech. There's actually a list of nice mechs called 'The List of Really Nice Mechs on the Ark.' It's got the least imaginative title I've ever heard of, but Smokescreen was overcharged when he started making it so I guess the title could have been much, much worse. Especially since Sideswipe and Cliffjumper had been there as well._

_"Don't get me wrong,"_ he said quickly. _"Just because there's a list of nice mechs doesn't mean that those not on it aren't nice mechs! I don't know what the criteria of the list even _is_ since Smokescreen's the one who maintains it and he only shows it to a couple mechs and they don't say anything either. But Hound's a nice mech. He's kind, and considerate, and patient beyond belief. He loves Earth."_ Bluestreak sighed. _"And I honestly think he's more happy to be on Earth than on Cybertron. Cybertron used to have what we called the Wilds Between. Well, it means a whole lot more in my native language than it does in English._

_"The glyphs that read 'Wilds Between' have a lot of connotations about the unexplored, the unknown, the dangerous, and the uncontrollable nature of the things that lived there. They were already being conquered and settled when I was maturing, but Hound is older than me by a few vorns. I think he liked the Wilds Between. He loves the challenge of rough terrain and the unexplored."_ He paused for a moment and then continued._ "Earth kind of reminds me of the Wilds Between. They're very similar. Unrestrained growth and life thriving everywhere, even in extremely dangerous environments. They were Cybertron's last reminder of a time when we didn't rule the planet, when there wasn't a unified, ordered whole."_

Bluestreak shrugged mentally. _"They're gone now, just like everything else back home. I think the last piece of Wilds Between was settled and became part of the Northern Sonic Canyons. That was when I was twenty vorns old, still just a sparkling, learning about the world._" He laughed a little at this.

_"Holy Primus, I was such an annoying little glitch when I was immature. 'Creator, what is this thing? Why does it do that? Do I consume it to strengthen my frame? Why do circuit boards have funny colors but tubing have primary ones? Does energon always taste good? What's high grade?'"_ He truly laughed here. _"I'm pretty sure my creators were Primus-blessed because they had the infinite patience of Vector Prime. And they answered all of my questions without complaining. Well, okay. Not true."_ He amended. _"I'll admit there might have been a few inappropriate questions posed at the _worst _possible times, but I usually got the hint and deactivated my vocalizer. Usually. Yeah._" Bluestreak's tone grew steadily more somber until he paused. He sought a change of subject.

He didn't want to talk about his creators anymore.

_"So like I said,"_ he continued, _"Hound's nice. He likes to explore and go hiking in the mountains and forests around the Ark. He doesn't go in the day much anymore though. Too many people around. He says he needs some time to himself, but he gets lonely out there. I drove with him today– that's why I was late, friend– and we got through that damned fence okay."_ Bluestreak frowned. _"I really, really don't like that fence. I know it's just a simple fence and fences don't move, but I don't like it. It makes my panels itch when I look at it and it just sits there. And the gate– dear Primus, the _gate–_ it makes this horrible rattling noise every time someone opens it and I found out today that one of its hinges is squeaking. Hound hates the fence too._

_"I think he hates the fence the most out of all the Ark mechs. Hound's sent out on patrol more often than the rest of us and he uses it to explore the areas around the Ark. He likes patrol and Prowl works hard to make sure everyone's duties fit their functions. I talk a lot but I'm a really good shot, so I'm put on sentry duty often. I'll usually be sitting on one of the ledges above the Ark and keep an sensor on standby for any Decepticons that decide to fly by. Sometimes I can look down at the desert and see Hound and the others in the patrol from my ledge. I try waving to them and they usually wave back._

_"It's one of the better times,"_ Bluestreak's tone became somewhat subdued. _"It's kind of sad really. The only time we can feel good is when we're all on alert for Decepticons. Fragging glitches."_ He snarled and sighed angrily. _"I just don't get it. I don't get why they keep fighting. Yeah, Cybertron wasn't perfect, but that was no excuse for Megatron to start carpet bombing neutral city-states."_ Bluestreak stopped, anger rising in his chassis. _"One astrosecond, friend."_ He ground out. He stalled all of his functions for two astroseconds to get the furious rage in his spark to calm.

_"I... I should stop talking about that. I mean, it's not like wishing for Praxus to still be standing is going to bring it back, you know?"_ He groaned sadly. _"Come on, you glitch-head, think of something else."_ He was silent for a long moment. Then he spoke up again. His voice was somber. _"Friend, I hope that you're happy, wherever you are. Certainly more than me, I hope. I've got my comrades, and they're like family to me, and I would do anything for them. But... It's not the same kind of happiness, you know? It's... it's..."_ Bluestreak paused for a long time, trying to say what it was he wanted to say. How to say how his friend was safe wherever he was, while Bluestreak never was.

_"It's just not the same."_ He said lamely. He paused again.

_"We got a new shipment of rations today."_ He said, attempting to be jovial. _"Skyfire, Ironhide, Cliffjumper, Gears, and Huffer went to pick it up. They were unloading it before I left. Skyfire's a big mech, a really big mech. He's a Transport Class Vosian. We don't have a whole lot of Vosians in our ranks since Vos was one of the first city-states that sided with Megatron when the war started. But Skyfire's been out of action for a very long time. He... he's got it worse than anyone."_ Bluestreak paused, his tone losing it joviality._ "He was trapped in the ice of the Arctic Circle since the Golden Age. The probability of us arriving on the same planet as a lost explorer is infinitesimal. Prowl or Smokescreen could give you more accurate odds, but still, highly unlikely. It's both amazing and extremely lucky. One of the few bits of luck any of us get anymore. _

_"Skyfire's a good mech at spark. He is as much an Autobot as any of us. _

_"So it's odd when he and the others came back with about one fourth the energon we usually receive."_ Bluestreak paused and wondered if he should say the next thing on his mind. Might as well. No one was listening after all. He said sadly, _"Our reserves are running low. We're on half rations until further notice._

_"I sometimes wish we could get energon refined from crystals like we do back home. It's a much cleaner and more intense feeling when you drink it and it can come in a variety of different sensations depending on what other metals are mixed into it. My favorite energon mix is crystalline-based with titanium and a dash of magnesium for that slight burn as it oxidizes going into your tank. Primus, I wish I had a full cube of that right now. If Spike's telling me the truth, then that cube's essentially the best meal on Cybertron. We don't eat, per say, but we refuel and take in metallic nutrients that are assimilated into our frames. It's kind of the same thing, but different._

_"I wish we weren't starving."_ Bluestreak said abruptly and glumly. _"The mechs don't deserve that. They're good people. Great people. The best people I've ever served with. The best mechs for any job because they're all extremely efficient and competent at their given functions._

_"I love them. They are family. And no family deserves to watch its members slowly rust, crumble, and fade."_

Bluestreak paused again.

_"I'm going to go, friend. I promised Hound I'd drive back to the Ark with him when he was done with his hike. I'll... I'll be back tomorrow."_

Bluestreak disconnected and the broadcast signal faded to static.

* * *

Thomas removed his headphones and looked down into his nearly empty cup of coffee and the crumb filled plate in his lap, a sad look on his features.

Alien robot.

A_ starving _alien robot.

Thomas placed the plate on the desk and finished off the last of the coffee in one quick gulp. He put now empty mug on the plate.

A _starving_ alien robot who talked about his home, his friends, and his family on the radio.

And who referred to his listener as friend.

Thomas pushed back his chair and pressed the record button for the second time that night.

* * *

Bluestreak returned to where he and Hound had parted ways an hour and a half ago to find Hound already there. Hound had said his curiosity about Bluestreak's meeting made him come back early, but Bluestreak didn't miss the look of desperate loneliness in Hound's optics.

Hound drove as close as he could to Bluestreak on the way back to the Ark.

* * *

**AN:** Look up Sour Crude Oil.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

* * *

"I think we should make the rock wall higher."

"Why?"

"Because if the humans' weather reports are correct, then there is a seventy-percent chance that a storm similar to the one twenty joors ago will occur late tonight or early tomorrow morning."

"... I'll get us some more boulders."

Bluestreak's dull cyan optics followed Sideswipe as the red Lamborghini forced himself to not run out of the Ark. He watched the front-liner activate his deconstruction protocols and transform his arms into the powerful pile-drivers that had killed more Decepticons than his guns as he power-walked through the open hatchway and out into the desert beyond. Bluestreak leaned over his crossed arms and arched one optic ridge at Sideswipe's hasty departure. He turned to Sideswipe's conversation partner as the mech strode towards him.

"Good morning, Bluestreak." Wheeljack greeted amiably, one hand raised. He tried to saunter nonchalantly over to the reclining Datsun mimic, but his legs were too stiff for his gait to be called a saunter. He only succeeded in moving like he were a newly forged drone awaiting a badly needed tune-up.

"Morning, Wheeljack." Bluestreak replied, keeping his tone natural. He fingered his too-watery morning half-ration as the engineer stepped up beside him. "How're you doing?"

Wheeljack clasped his hands behind his back. "Pretty good." He said with false cheer. His back panels were still stiff. "Been watching some of the humans' television broadcasts. They're fairly accurate when it comes to predicting this planet's weather patterns."

"So that's why Sideswipe's in such a hurry." Bluestreak said into his cube. He took a tentative sip. The energon and trace amounts of water in the cube had begun to oxidize. He frowned into the cube then downed the whole thing in one gulp. He ignored the sensation of inert energon sludge sliding down his throat and hoped his internal filters and refinement processes would take care of it. Something told him after Jazz had wound up in the Med-bay with clogged tanks that Ratchet would not like to see anyone else with a similar problem.

Bluestreak's coping mechanism was not the only one that the mechs found irritating.

The Prime did not like finding pieces of the Ark where they weren't supposed to be.

Wheeljack sighed and sank to the ground next to Bluestreak, all false cheer gone. He pulled out his own half-filled cube and stared down into its slightly blue and sludgy contents. His look became dubious. "How's the energon?" He asked rhetorically.

"Fine," Bluestreak replied casually, not looking at the engineer. He fiddled with his empty cube. "But you should drink it quick. I think some of the cubes are beginning to oxidize."

Wheeljack's back panels drooped. "I wish they'd store the cubes _away_ from water." He complained quietly.

Bluestreak kept his optics firmly on the empty cube he was playing with. He gave a small shrug. "Hydroelectric plants are supposed to be wet." He stated flatly.

"Doesn't make it any less disgusting." Wheeljack said, a note of bitterness in his tone. Still, he unsealed the top of the cube, retracted his mask from his scared intakes, and drank the contents quickly. Bluestreak saw Wheeljack shudder. The mask slid back into place when he was finished. "Yuck." He heard the engineer whisper to himself.

"So, what are you doing?" Wheeljack asked casually, slipping his empty cube into a subspace pocket, pretending as though nothing had happened. Bluestreak was glad for the change of subject.

"Waiting for the rest of my patrol." Bluestreak said, subspacing his own empty cube. He crossed his arms again and leaded further against the wall. Wheeljack tilted his head, optics too dull.

"Who's going with you?" He asked.

Bluestreak shrugged. "Don't know." He said honestly. He paused and wondered if it was too early in the morning or if it would be okay to continue. Hound had listened. Why not Wheeljack?

He took the chance.

"Prowl changed up the roster this morning," Bluestreak said as though this kind of event happened every day, not once a decavorn. "Or at least that's what Inferno told me. Red Alert's not happy that Prowl changed it without telling him and he's locked himself in Security Control. He's not letting anyone else monitor the cameras with him so Prowl's had to change the rosters _again_ to give everyone who had Monitor duty this morning something else to do. I asked Prowl if my duties had changed and he told me no. I didn't get to ask him who else is going with me because he was kind of busy. I think he was shouting at Red Alert on his comm. link. I didn't get to hear much else before he shut me off."

"Huh." Wheeljack replied dully. He brought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. Bluestreak took that as his cue to continue.

"I hope Red Alert and Prowl aren't fighting." Bluestreak said sadly. He looked down at his peds. "I don't want them fighting. We do enough of it as is."

Wheeljack leaned his head back and offlined his opitcs. He sighed dejectedly and whispered. "I hear you."

Bluestreak's spark felt lighter at the tiny pun and he smiled. He didn't know whether or not Wheeljack had meant to make the pun, but he didn't care. The aphorism still made him feel happy.

"So what are you going to do today?" Bluestreak asked the slumped engineer, trying to infect him with the little bit of amusement he had miraculously found. Wheeljack, unfortunately, was immune.

"Tune-ups, maintenance, repairs to the Ark's flooded sections," He listed monotonously. "The usual work."

"Oh," Bluestreak replied. They stayed silent for a few minutes before Bluestreak spoke up again. While the energon issue was rather depressing, he did have to ask. "Can you find a way to prevent the energon from being contaminated? Or remove the water before the energon oxidizes?"

Wheeljack stared ahead. He said listlessly, "I could try."

Bluestreak knew he wouldn't. There was no way any of them could or would get within ten miles of a power station without a Decepticon raiding party present. Cybertron's arid environment assured that processed energon was mostly free of contaminants and the raw crystals could withstand anything, save an uncontrolled chemical reaction. Separating the water from the energon had to be done in the production stages. Energon and water reacted faster than any post-refinement process could separate them.

Wheeljack and Bluestreak watched the other Autobots go about their daily business. Not another word passed between them until Bluestreak's patrol finally gathered ten minutes later.

* * *

Thomas Malond had a problem.

There had been many problems in Thomas's life, but no more than in anyone else's if he did say so himself. They were the same kind of problems faced by the majority of the human race, ranging from basic math sets in preschool to finding a job at a decent university to managing his wife's funeral. Thomas had never really thought he was destined for great things and had not done any great things in his life. The life of a mathematics teacher at a local community college was not the career he had wanted when he graduated, he will admit, but he had enjoyed his work. _Gaining experience_, his future wife had called that period. She, like always, had been right.

But Thomas had known from an early age that he was a follower, not a leader, and that was fine by him. He had no desire to be head of the mathematics department at the University of Nevada in Reno. He had been content to teach undergraduate Calculus I and II while discussing mathematical theories with the graduate students. He had never mentored a graduate and his career, while solid, was uneventful. And so it had continued for years, he happily employed and married to the love of his life. Until six years ago when they both had received disturbing news about his wife's abdominal pain.

Her pancreatic cancer had taken her from him three years ago. Neither she nor he had known she had had it until the doctor had told them how far it had progressed. The cells were already metastasizing by the time of the diagnosis. Like always though, they had made the best of it. He had been allowed to leave the university and they had both moved to a small house in Brookings, Oregon, for peace and the sounds of the ocean. Her ashes had been scattered to the Pacific as she had requested.

He stayed in Brookings, not quite ready to leave the small house he had occupied with his wife. He played the stock market, he tutored high school kids, he substituted at the local schools when the math teachers were sick, he volunteered at beach clean ups because his wife had loved the ocean, he paid his bills, he wrote letters to old friends, and he listened to the radio.

That last one was why a fifty-seven year old, graying, balding man was staring with intense brown eyes at his current problem:

A cassette tape.

Never had there been a more pressing matter presented to Thomas than that cassette tape.

Thomas had been another face in the crowd, just another number in the record books of the state. He was a friend to the neighbors, a firm teacher to the students, and a grouch to overly obnoxious rock music lovers.

He was also privy to the memoirs of an alien robot.

And while he couldn't say anything definitely, he was also fairly certain he knew more about the aliens than any non-government affiliated person on the planet.

The problem was what was he going to do about it?

Thomas picked up his old, scratched, black ballpoint pen and placed its tip at the top of his yellow notepad. He paused as he thought about what the alien had said and quickly reviewed his two pages of notes.

_"1140 AM Broadcast: June 18, 1987"_ it read at the top of the yellow pad. Following that title was a list of people, places, and events the alien had talked about. Below those were more notes as to what he initially thought those people, places, and events _meant_. Thomas sighed and read them for the sixth time since 9:00 AM that morning.

He had asked himself a simple question as he had sipped his morning coffee:

What did he know and what did he learn from the broadcast?

It was like answering the questions the English professors had loved to throw at the Science and Mathematics professors just to tease them. Thomas approached his self-imposed question like he would one of their prompts.

_Step One: Gather Information._

He had listened to the recording again and again as he wrote down his observations, speculations, and inferences. He paused, rewound, and replayed portions as necessary for two hours. When he listened to the recording for a final time, he was fairly certain he had gained all he would from the monologue. His notes had taken up almost two pages of the long notepad.

_Step Two-A: Organize and Analyze the Information in a Rough Draft._

_Step Two-B: Write Everything that Comes to Mind._

Thomas pressed the pen into the pad and began to write.

The first thing he learned was the name of a place.

_Ark_.

It did not take a genius to realize that _Ark_ was the name of the alien ship that was crashed somewhere in northern Oregon. It was also, apparently, home to the speaker and the other aliens.

Thomas had not given thought to the alien invaders before, beyond hoping that they stayed as far away from him, his wife, and his students as possible. Reno, Nevada, hadn't boasted a great energy industry, so they were fairly certain that they would be safe. And that had been the end of that.

But now he considered the alien speaker's situation. The government had told the media that the alien ship was nonfunctional, embedded deep within a half-active volcano. However, it was a _starship_. It was _meant_ to travel between worlds, Thomas had reasoned. So it would make sense that the ship they had _arrived_ in would also be the place they _lived_ in. Thomas also knew that none of the aliens were living anywhere else, otherwise the media would have been all over that location. And perhaps the government, too.

Thomas had never really cared where the aliens were as long as they were not near him. He frowned and paused in his writing as he reached that conclusion, but he could not argue with it. He had simply not cared about the aliens. They had either been nuisances or threats. Or both.

And he realized he just _did not know_ _anything_ about them.

Thomas continued writing.

The second thing he learned was a name.

_Hound_.

It was fairly obvious that this was another alien. A 'mech' as the alien speaker called his fellow soldiers. Would 'mech' be a term for them in their professional capacity as soldiers or was it a name for what they were, like humans calling themselves 'men'? The word wasn't in the dictionary when he had gone to look it up, but it would have been next to 'mechanical'. Since there was nothing else he could go on, Thomas eventually decided on using his latter definition for 'mech'. Since 'mech' was closer to 'mechanical' than 'soldier' or the like, he assumed it referred to their bodies rather than abilities.

Thomas paused and frowned as he pondered the name of the alien.

Hound.

_Hound._

H-O-U-N-D.

Hound.

Thomas traced the letters several times as he just looked at them. He tapped the end of the pen against the pad in a steady rhythm. It was such an... odd name, if Thomas was honest with himself. Hounds were types of dogs, or another name for them. 'To hound someone' meant to go after them persistently and continuously.

Thomas continued tapping as he reviewed his notes on the mech's characteristics. This mech was a tracker, a scout, and very patient. It was his _job_ to look for things and to find out everything he could about his enemies. A scout or a tracker, especially a military one, would, of course, go after his enemies relentlessly. Hound, if he were really a military-grade scout, would _hound_ his enemies.

Thomas could not believe how lame that pun had been, even in his head.

It brought up an interesting point however.

Did every mech's name describe its owner's job or function?

Thomas's eyes widened as he realized he didn't know something else: the aliens' original language.

His pen stilled on the pad.

Hound only meant 'to pursue relentlessly' in _English_. Thomas might have been a mathematician, but he was no fool in the realm of languages. Aliens would _not_ speak in any human language on their own world nor would they necessarily follow human-like rules of grammar or syntax. _Especially_ when it came to _names_. So what would Hound's name be in his original language? A word or phrase that described the mech like 'Hound' did or something completely different? Was 'Hound' a direct translation? Was it the closest word that sounded like his original name?

Thomas made a quick note off to the side (_Analyze section on Wilds Between more closely_) before he stopped as a detail of the broadcast hit him with the force of a train.

The alien speaker had mentioned that in his _written_ language, Wilds Between meant more than what English could convey in a single word or even two words. So what if it was the same in their _spoken_ language as well? What if using English was limiting their ability to convey what they wanted to say _because there just weren't words for it_?

Thomas's heart sank.

Was there a whole _underlying and context-providing_ portion of the broadcast he'd missed because the alien speaker wasn't talking in his native language? Sure Thomas wouldn't understand what was being said, so he was grateful that the mech spoke in English, but that still–

_Wait_.

Thomas's eyes widened.

The alien speaker had said something about happiness halfway through the broadcast– about how he had said that while he was happy with his comrades, he was not as happy as he assumed his listener was. Thomas had noted that the mech had been trying to find a word but had given up.

What if the mech _couldn't find a word_?

What if _that_ was an example of the alien's inability to _accurately and succinctly_ convey what he meant?

Thomas slumped in his seat and placed his head in his hands. He contemplated his conclusions for another minute before he once again felt like a complete idiot despite the master's degree and decades of teaching experience:

He didn't even know the _alien speaker's_ _name_.

Thomas groaned and bawled his hands into fists. He sighed angrily once before grabbing his pen and writing in big capital letters at the top of his musings.

_WHAT IS HIS NAME?_

Thomas, despite the anger he felt at himself for not realizing that he _didn't even know nor questioned_ the name of the mech talking to him, only quivered as he put pen back to paper where he had left off. He knew that the broadcast didn't hold many clues to the name of its speaker, but methodical, careful analysis could bring him an answer. Not only the mech's name, but information about him, his fears, his hopes, his _life_, and every other topic he indulged on the airwaves.

_Show your work. Don't skip any steps. Box your answers. _

The mantra of the math student.

Thomas, pen poised as he refocused on his notes, continued his reflections.

* * *

At three o'clock in the afternoon, Thomas placed his pen down. He stretched his tight and tired muscles and groaned. He picked up the yellow pad with its pages and pages of reflections, guesses, revelations, notes, and singular angry reminder. He gazed at the words on the paper intensely, as though they could give him more answers than what he had received.

He placed the pad down again when no more information was forth coming. He glanced again at the cassette tape sitting innocently off to the side.

He let out a long, slow breath as he reached for the telephone on the edge of his desk. He quickly dialed a well memorized number and held the receiver to his ear. The phone on the opposite end rang twice before there was a _click_ sound and a deep, professional, yet slightly bored voice floated out of the speaker.

_"Chetco Community Public Library, my name is Sean Barlow. How may I help you?"_

"Hello, Sean. It's Tom," Thomas replied, evenly.

_"Oh, hey Tom!"_ Sean's voice lost its bored edge, even as he spoke relatively quietly. _"What's up?"_ He asked jovially.

"Can you come over this evening?" Thomas asked. "There's something I want you to listen to..."

* * *

**AN:** Slow, but important, I think.

'Uncontrolled chemical reaction' is fancy chemistry jargon for 'explosion.'


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

* * *

The tin garage creaked and groaned as the wind flowed in and around it, a dark gray titan leaned against it. Its doorwings were flared wide to catch the evening sun's dying light. The long shadows cast by the mountains on the horizon crept closer and closer towards the Autobot's peds, looking to slither up his ankles and drag him into the darkness. Bluestreak didn't see the shadows though. His optics were offline and he basked in the sensation of sunlight on his plating. Almost a twentieth of a vorn after he had first seen that glorious, mythical, impossible sight and felt the energy in his very molecules and he was still unused to the feeling of pure warmth suffusing his frame.

He onlined his optics and gazed out over the orange, brown, tan, and dark green landscape. The cyan orbs tracked the blazing ball of heat, light, and raw power that gave life to the world below him as it sank below the mountain range, its last ray glancing off the tips of his crimson chevron. He sat there, completely still, reveling in the feeling of a warm frame.

Had there been another to see him, Bluestreak could have been mistaken for a statue, the remnant of a race of metallic masterpieces long since destroyed and long since forgotten. The only signs that the metal giant was as alive as the plants around him was the quiet whirring of his vents and the shining cyan of his optics.

The wind continued to blow long after Sol had vanished for the other side of the world and the moon had graced the sky, bathing the night in a cold light. Bluestreak had not moved one wire during that entire time. With the disappearance of the star, his frame slowly lost the accumulated heat he had gained, chilling his peds and his hands, his thighs and his arms, his processor and his spark. He had, like everyone else in the Ark had, thought too much, worried too much, and momentarily forgot how to hope in the dark times.

The cool, dark night reminded him of Cybertron– of _home_– and its once-fabled vast, open stretches of untamed land. Natural terraces made from metallic panels and carbon dust. Huge silver and black canyons that lead to the depths, to the core, to the unknown and the unseen. Mountains upon mountains of elements stretching towards the stars, reaching for heights and places beyond their humble corner of the universe. Caverns and caves glowing blue with crystalline energon deposits. Pools of mineral acids, rare pockets of liquid water hidden near the core. Lively winds from the thin atmosphere making flowing over the surface. Stars everywhere when their star set.

But the same flat desert mesa stretching out before him also brought to his mind the torn, scarred, charred, and open ruins that had once been the great towers and structures of Cybertronian history, the evidence that there had once been life there, prosperous, glorious, beautiful, thriving life. No longer would the Vosians bring tales of the stars to Cybertron's people. No longer would the Crystal Gardens of Praxus sing in time with the planet's natural vibrations. No longer would the Sonic Canyons amaze those who stood on its edges. No longer would they feel the metallic rock underneath their tires. No longer would they see their home planet alive.

No longer.

His thoughts traveled from one cold, dark corner of his spark to the next, illuminating the horrors he had witnessed and committed in his long, yet still immature life. Memories of twisted metallic debris, frames torn asunder, friends there one moment and gone the next, the feel of suffocating rock all around him stabbed at his core.

His spark, his very soul, _hurt_.

Processor still locked in old memories, old horrors, old grief, he activated his comm. link. The broadcast of his thoughts travelled down his lines, into the radio tower, and outward to whomever was listening.

* * *

_"... Why." _He began defeated. "_I've asked myself that question a lot. I'm pretty sure everyone's thought why, even Blades and Cliffjumper. Even the Dinobots and the sparklings. They– _especially_ they– have been asking us why. Why were we created? Why is this world not our home? Why is there a war? Why do we fight? Why do I power on every Earth day? Why do we live when so many others have died? Why did this happen? Why why why..." _He stopped talking and clicked sadly. He powered off his optics, counted to twenty, then began again.

_"I'm sorry friend. A lot has been happening lately._" He paused for one moment._ "...Prowl and Red Alert aren't speaking to one another. Optimus has been trying to get them to reconcile, but it's slow going."_ He turned his head to look northward towards the Ark beyond the horizon.

_"Prowl changed up the duty rosters last night and didn't tell Red Alert."_ He said robotically._ "Red Alert panicked and then shouted at Prowl about how he was acting weird and that he'd caught a new virus weapon thing the Decepticons implanted in his processor and that we were all going to die–_" He sighed, paused, then began again.

_"I should explain things from the start, friend."_ He wanted to pretend his imaginary listener was human. Or at least someone who had no idea that the war even existed. Or didn't know anything. He... Bluestreak wanted to explain, to _justify_ his actions and the actions of his fellow soldiers. To answer what few _why_ questions he could. Even if it was to empty air. There was nothing else he _could_ do.

_"Prowl is our Second-in-Command and the Commander of the Strategic and Tactical Division."_ He said as normally as he could._ "He's a smart mech– really smart. Like, smartest mech I've _ever_ met. He's not as smart as Perceptor, but he's still really, _really_ smart. He was created in Iacon at the request of the Praxian Enforcer Corps when they were expanding just after the height of the Golden Age. He's what was called a Pre-Prog, short for Pre-Programmed. He wasn't created by two Cybertronians like I was. He and I think about twenty-seven others had their sparks infused into their frames by Vector Sigma and the Prime."_

He gave a small chuckle and his spark lightened a little. He gave himself a small smile as better memories overtook the shadowed ones. _"Prowl is mature. Very mature._" he said, admiration in his tone._ "I remember hearing about his accomplishments and his commanding style even when I was immature. Praxus's crime rates plummeted after he had earned the title of Enforcer Commander. News like that travelled fast through the datastreams. Prowl got things done back then. He still does. By the Pit, if it wasn't for him, I wouldn't be–"_ Bluestreak stopped. Darker memories were brought to the forefront of his processor. He shook his head violently has he pushed them back and just focused solely on the present. He thought about what he had just thought of saying next and if he even _wanted_ to say it.

_"If it weren't for Prowl_..." He said in a quiet, strained tone before he could stop himself, "_I wouldn't even be _online_ right now."_

He sighed shakily, forcing each word out. _"Prowl saved my life. Back when Praxus... fell. He was one of the first responders to arrive after... after the attack. I... I don't blame him or the Autobots for not getting there quick enough."_ He lied. _"It– it happened too fast. The Decepticons literally came out of nowhere. One second they weren't there then– then– next the building exploded and– andand it– ititIt–!"_ He clenched his hands and cursed in his native language, a harsh grating scream as fire rained down from the sky, energon splashed across his face, he fell, and the darkness came alive as Cybertron itself opened its maw and swallowed him whole, pressing him in on all sides, trapping him in his own dead segment of the Pit–!

Bluestreak's vents whirred loudly as he curled in on himself and keened harshly, begging in his native language to be spared.

He clawed at his plating, trying to dig out of the deafening Pit that would be his grave and prison in the afterlife when his spark finally guttered. He cried unintelligible pleas, muttering brokenly, "Help me", until he knew in the very depths of his spark that no one was coming to find him.

Not his creators.

Not Prowl.

Not _anyone_.

He sat there, keening and crying, scared and alone. Several long minutes past, as his vents slowly stopped whirring. The chilly night air sapped the heat of his fear and helplessness. The wind blew around Bluestreak, caressing his sensors, reminding his looping processor that there was no rock around him. He was in the open air. Bluestreak clicked as he was pulled out of his memories but the tiny reminders around him. He wanted to be anywhere but his own looping processor so he caught onto those reminders like a lifeline. He onlined his optics and looked out over the landscape.

He was on Earth.

Not Cybertron.

Not Praxus.

He was on _Earth_, a planet completely different in every way from Cybertron.

_Not in danger.._ He thought shakily.

_"S-s-sorry,_" he keened, though he didn't mean it. He placed a hand over his faceplates and just focused on settling his mind. He pushed his torturous memories farther and farther back, refusing to give those files any consideration at all._"I-I just... do-don't want to talk about what happened during Pr-Pr-Praxus... n-not now..."_ He remained quiet for another minute before steeling himself.

_"Pr-Prowl was the one who f-found me."_ He admitted in a quivering tone, frame still shaking with fear._ "H-he pulled me from the w-wreckage himself. That... that was the only time I've ever seen him scared. At least, he _sounded_ scared. Prowl– Prowl doesn't ever get scared. He-He gets still. He-He gets angry. He doesn't get scared. He took me to Uraya and from Uraya, I joined the A-Autobots. _Uraya_ was what the Decepticons had been aiming for actually. Pr-Pr-Home was juts _in the way_."_ He stopped and sobbed.

_"I can't do this anymore._" He cried brokenly, spark breaking in its casing. _"I-I... I don't want to do this anymore! I want to go home! I don't want to _do this _anymore!"_ He snapped his cable out of the tower and laid down on the ground, curling into a ball, trying and failing to hold himself together.

Bluestreak laid there in the desert, crying his spark out.

And he knew in his shattered spark that no one would hear him.

* * *

Thomas swallowed thickly as he turned the radio off, his shaking hand rested on the radio set. He sniffed once and turned to look at his guest.

Sean Barlow sat on the threadbare couch and stared at the radio with wide eyes. He looked as pale and shaken as Thomas felt. Sean's eyes flicked from the radio on Thomas's desk to the older man in his chair. Thomas saw the same things in Sean's eyes that he had felt the first time he had heard the mech speak: fear, sadness, pity. The larger man turned away and sniffed into his sleeve.

Silence reigned for several minutes more before Thomas looked away.

"... Told you." He murmured sadly and pressed the record button on his tape player again.


End file.
